


Of Cuddles and Children

by trajektoria



Series: Of Consulting Detectives and Their Son [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Difficult questions, Established Relationship, Fluff, How babies are made?, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five-year-old Hamish starts to ask difficult questions - not about the universe, science or criminology; Sherlock could easily deal with those. But the questions about naked cuddles, pregnancy and how it was possible for two males to have a child? Well, that's a completely different story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) and [sherlockedholmed](http://sherlockedholmed.tumblr.com//) who helped me improve the text.

It was another lazy afternoon at 221b Baker Street. John was still at work, saving people from the evil clutches of the flu. Sherlock, hunched over a microscope, mumbled his discoveries to himself in the absence of his conductor of light, and little Hamish sat on a couch with his drawing pad, crayons spread all around him and Mr. Bee perching faithfully on his thigh. His art teacher at school had given him a very specific homework assignment - to draw a picture of your whole family. 

It was very easy; child's play. Hamish had a knack for painting just like his Daddy, who for some reason preferred not to show his talent very often. The youngest Holmes was an artistic soul, so he got down to business with gusto. First, he drew himself in the middle of a page. He looked bigger and more self-confident than in reality, but, after all, he was the artist here, and no one should tell the artist how to do his work. Then Hamish drew Papa. He was only slightly bigger than his son and wore a beige jumper, one of those that Daddy often teased him about, saying that they were hideous. Hamish actually quite liked them, since they were soft and cuddly. Papa had a big smile on his face like he usually did. In one hand he held a stethoscope – he was a doctor, obviously, and the teacher would probably frown if Hamish painted him with a gun – and the other was coiled around his son's small one. Hamish felt satisfied. Nearly there! Now was the time to draw Daddy. He definitely needed to be the tallest; the deerstalker – the hat he hated, but Hamish thought was cool – making him even bigger. He wore a coat and a scarf like always; Hamish wanted to own the same attire once he got older. The boy decided to draw him with a phone and the other hand put into his son's as well. Everything was almost ready. He just added Mr. Bee in the corner. He wasn't a family member, but just a friend, so he needed to stay a bit away. 

“Sorry, Mr. Bee. You're very important, you know, but rules are rules,” Hamish said apologetically, patting his toy on the head. 

Yes, the picture was ready, Hamish concluded with pride. He quickly sketched the violin, a microscope, Papa's laptop and a few other things essential to life at 221b Baker Street in the background. Then, however, a sudden thought occurred to him. He whipped his head around to look at his Daddy, making his dark curls bounce adorably on his head. After a moment of hesitation, the boy slid down from the couch and padded across the room towards his father. He grabbed a fistful of the fabric of his shirt and tugged gently to get his attention.

“Daddy, can I ask you something?” Hamish begged warily, knowing that Sherlock didn't like to be disturbed while conducting his experiments. Still, it was urgent and couldn't wait. He really wanted to make an accurate picture!

Sherlock huffed through his nose in exasperation. His research was going nowhere. 

“You already did,” Sherlock pointed out tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then he sighed. No need to take his frustration out on the little boy. “What's the matter?” he asked, picking Hamish up and putting him on his lap. Most of the time he was actually extremely pleased that his boy was so inquisitive, and the detective was more than happy to answer his every question as correctly as he could. Seeing the spark of admiration on his offspring's face was the greatest reward the parent could imagine. Sherlock was all ears. “Tell me what you want to know.”

“Is Papa pregnant?” the boy asked hopefully. 

Sherlock was fairly sure his heart stopped right in his chest. His eyes widened like saucers and his jaw nearly dropped. If his self-control wasn't so flawless, he might have even blurted ‘What?’ - the word that irritated him to no end because it proved how stupid and clueless everyone around him was. Still, Hamish managed to render him speechless for a few seconds. Not many have succeeded in such a feat. 

“Excuse me?” he ventured to say, maintaining some dignity. 

Hamish rolled his eyes. For such a smart man, his Daddy could occasionally be so dumb! 

“Does Papa have a baby boy or a baby girl inside his belly?” 

Sherlock's confusion only increased. How was Hamish even familiar with the concept of pregnancy so soon? Did he learn that at school? Unlikely. Did John tell him something? Even more unlikely.

“No...” he replied carefully, having a bad feeling about the direction in which this conversation was heading. 

“Are _you_ pregnant then?” He frowned. Funny, he was almost sure it would be Papa. Somehow he seemed more fitted to that role. More fat and more warmth. 

“Of course not!” Sherlock scoffed, truly baffled. From where did Hamish get this preposterous idea?

“You're not? So I won't have a little brother or sister?” Hamish pouted in disappointment, scratching his dainty nose thoughtfully. “That's weird, though.”

“Why do you consider it weird that your fathers are not pregnant?” Sherlock inquired, genuinely curious and stupefied. The ways in which his son's mind operated sometimes were fascinating and utterly unpredictable. But even taking that into account, Sherlock wasn't mentally prepared for the bomb the boy dropped.

“Because I saw you and Papa kissing and cuddling naked under a blanket and people get pregnant from that.”

An awkward silence lasted a few long seconds.

“Oh,” Sherlock managed to utter, feeling the overwhelming need to clear his throat nervously. Judging by the heat spreading on his cheeks, he was blushing quite fiercely. And to think he was so sure that the door had been locked properly every time he and John were getting intimate! Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. “I see. And what, pray tell, made you arrive at the conclusion that cuddling under a blanket gets people pregnant?”

Hamish was a little reluctant to answer, but after a little coaxing he divulged his source and betrayed his partner in crime.

“When you were on a case the other day and I stayed with Mrs. Hudson. We watched a film where there was a couple who cuddled and the lady got pregnant and after some time had this huuuge belly,” he explained, showing with his hands how round and big the woman's stomach had been. “So why aren't you?”

“Hamish, only women can get pregna--” he began in a scholarly tone, but clammed up midsentence the moment he realised how grave a mistake he had just committed. 

“But you're not women and you still had me?” came the dreaded question.

Sherlock fell silent. Shit. What was he supposed to say? He knew this day would come eventually, but he didn't expect it so soon. He wasn't prepared. What was even worse, John wasn't here. How could he possibly handle this situation on his own? Sherlock was nearly panicking. Should he tell the truth? But what if he involuntarily hurt the boy? Should he lie then? But how? It was too late for stories about the bees and flowers, storks, or children found in cabbage. Besides, he would never insult his son's intelligence by telling him such rubbish. So what then?

“Well, er...” he started tentatively, feeling Hamish's intent gaze on him. “It's actually--” A sudden buzzing cut him off. Sherlock's phone, lying forgotten on the kitchen table, was ringing.

The detective wasn't one to believe in providence, but in that moment he felt like throwing his arms heavenward and screaming “Hallelujah”. Mumbling a half-hearted apology to Hamish, Sherlock picked the boy up and carried him to the couch before he dashed to the kitchen and grabbed the phone.

“Lestrade? How _marvellous_ to hear from you. Tell me _everything_. Absolutely _everything_ , don't omit even a single detail! Take your time,” Sherlock beamed, his voice elated as if he were to confess an undying love towards the inspector. 

Hamish was clearly miffed about the whole situation. He scoffed in annoyance, telling Mr. Bee how stupid Daddy was and how Uncle Greg was even stupider. The boy was determined to wait until the adults stopped talking, but the conversation was going on and on and he quickly became bored and tired. Finally, he dozed off on a couch, hugging the toy closely to his chest. 

Sherlock waited another ten minutes just to be sure, keeping the dialogue alive. Lestrade hadn't been so perplexed in his life. Sherlock insisted that he should elaborate about everything that occurred that day in the Yard, the whole ordeal of a broken coffee machine included. The inspector grew to deeply regret calling the detective to remind him about the case Mycroft had given him a week ago. When Sherlock concluded that his son was indeed fast asleep, he ended the call abruptly and sighed with relief. That was really close.

He left the phone and went to the bedroom to grab a blanket, with which he covered the sleeping boy. John chose precisely that moment to return home. 

“Sherlock?” he whispered in surprise. Hamish didn't take a nap during the day often. Was he sick? “Everything's all right?” 

“Not entirely...” Sherlock admitted, picking up the picture Hamish had drawn before. Staring at it pensively, Sherlock briefly summarized what had happened during his husband's absence. Throughout the whole story his body language conveyed how unsure and lost he felt right at that moment. 

“So what now, John?” the detective asked after he finished. He knew that the distraught look on his husband's face was mirroring his own. 

John sighed, but didn't lose his head. 

“We have only one option, Sherlock. We'll tell him the truth tomorrow.”

“Are you sure about this, John?” He raised an eyebrow, full of misgivings. After all, John would suffer the most if something went awry. 

“Yes. It's really better that way,” John nodded, wrapping his arm around his partner. “He needs to know sooner or later. Trust me.”

And Sherlock did, as always. The long and reassuring kiss that was given to him helped in that significantly. 

“Tomorrow then.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

John had the next day off, but even if he hadn't, it wouldn't have stopped him from staying at home, since he was needed there more than at the clinic. He and Sherlock woke up early to discuss what to tell Hamish and how to explain everything to their inquisitive son in a way to make him understand. Sherlock was rather wary of the outcome of this discussion, indulging himself in doom and gloom, but John tried to stay positive, having hope in the little boy and his capacity to deal with difficult concepts. Above all, though, John had an unshakable belief in their family, and that it could survive any hardships. 

The day officially commenced when Hamish, groggy and swaying from side to side, crawled into their bed punctually at eight with Mr. Bee in his arms, to get his early dosage of snuggles and good morning kisses. Then, all the Watson-Holmes boys went in turn to the bathroom to perform their morning ablutions and put their clothes on. Hamish still needed some assistance since he had a tendency to get lost in the depths of his jumper while trying to get dressed by himself. John invariably deemed the sight of his hopelessly-entangled-in-the-fabric son absolutely adorable. 

Everyone moved to the kitchen to get breakfast. Even Sherlock couldn't weasel his way out of the nutrition regime, and was forced to drink a cup of tea and eat at least one pancake, which John prepared for everyone. During the meal, Hamish seemed hungry and consequently too busy stuffing his face with food while smearing the strawberry jam all over his cheeks to ask any questions, but once he cleared his plate he resumed his inquiries about how it was possible that he came into this world. John asked him for a little patience, but that resulted in a massive sulk. Sometimes John thought that Hamish was too similar to Sherlock for his own good. 

When John had cleaned up after breakfast, the husbands exchanged glances, deciding it was time. Sherlock picked the boy up from John's armchair, where he was moping, and brought him up to the couch, positioning him between his parents. At least Hamish became livelier, expecting to finally get the answers he craved. The curiosity burned brightly in his eyes.

John wrapped his arm around his son's shoulders and spoke softly. Sherlock tried not to show how nervous he was, but he was fidgeting in his place and twiddling his thumbs with uncharacteristic agitation. 

“All right, Hamish. You want to know about pregnancy, children, and how we got you, so we'll tell you everything. If you don't understand something, just ask, okay? It's a quite complicated subject,” John provided fair warning, though he didn't doubt his five-year-old son's intelligence. 

“I will, Papa,” Hamish agreed, nodding enthusiastically. He held Mr. Bee close to his chest and waited, dangling his feet in the air, since they couldn't reach the floor. John took a deep breath. Here went nothing.

“As you already know, Hamish, only women can get pregnant. But they can't do it on their own. They need a man, who has to plant this little seed with a baby inside their belly – just like you need to bury a seed in the ground to make it grow into a plant,” he explained, glancing at Sherlock with the hope that his husband wouldn't butt in and correct any biological discrepancies. Fortunately, Sherlock knew better and kept his mouth shut. 

“So a man gives a lady the seed to grow a baby during naked cuddles?” deduced Hamish complacently, very proud of himself and awaiting praise for his cleverness.

“Yes, precisely, Hamish,” John confirmed. Well, so far so good. At least that was what John thought until the next question got asked in a confused tone. 

“Then why do you and Daddy cuddle naked when you can't get pregnant?”

John felt the tips of his ears heating up and had the overwhelming urge to clear his throat, whereas Sherlock seemed suddenly fascinated with the floral pattern on the wallpaper. 

“Because it's something you do with your husband or wife to show that you love him or her,” the doctor stuttered vaguely after an awkward pause.

“Why?” Hamish insisted.

“Er... We'll have that conversation when you're at least twice as old,” John decided, not wanting to scar their only child for life. “Anyway, getting back to pregnancy... Surely you remember Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara, who came here a few weeks ago with your cousin Rose? We've stayed at their place in Cardiff during the holidays, yeah?” 

Hamish nodded in confirmation. “Yeah. They're nice. But Rose is so small!”

John had to smile. Rose was just one year younger, but Hamish behaved like a man of the world around her, clearly making an impression on the little girl. She adored him. 

“Right... you know now that it takes a man and a woman to make a baby. Sherlock and I are both men and Aunt Harry and Clara are women, so no matter how much we loved our spouses we couldn't become parents on our own. However, we wanted to have a child very much, our child, so we came up with an idea.” John stopped, taking a moment to peer at his husband in search of support. Sherlock put his hand over John's. Now it was time for the tricky part of the explanation. “We discussed the idea with your aunts and they agreed – your Daddy was to give his seed to your Aunt Harry, who is my sister so we have similar DNA, and I was to give my seed to Clara a year later. That's how you and Rose came into being. After Harry gave birth to you, she gave you to us and we've been together ever since.” John finished, feeling his palms getting sweaty. He didn't say anything else, offering Hamish a moment to absorb this new information and come to terms with it. At least he was already familiar with the concept of DNA, courtesy of Sherlock and his freaky experiments.

“So...” the boy began haltingly after some really intensive pondering, “You're not my real Papa and Aunt Harry is my Mummy?” he asked, quite baffled and perhaps a little dispirited.

John had been afraid that Hamish would arrive at this conclusion, so he had prepared an answer in advance, praying it would be enough to appease his distress. If the boy rejected him it would break his heart into a billion pieces. 

“No, Hamish. She had you in her belly for nine months, watching over you. But you're ours. Just like when Mrs. Hudson watches over you for some time when we're away, but that doesn't make her your parent. You are mine and Sherlock's and we love you very much.”

Hamish tilted his head, falling deep into a reverie. His little face creased as if he was trying to figure out the most difficult secrets of the universe. Eventually, he nodded pensively. Yes, that explanation made sense. After all, he felt connected to John and Sherlock far more strongly than to his aunts. He smiled at John and the doctor beamed at him in relief. 

“Daddy, so you and Aunt Harry cuddled in bed to make me?” Hamish inquired, whipping his head to the other side and staring curiously at his father.

Sherlock looked positively horrified. “God, no!”

John laughed heartily at his husband's outrage and proceeded to remedy the incorrect assumption. 

“No, Hamish, they didn't cuddle. A special doctor put your Daddy's seed into a big syringe and injected it into Harry's belly.”

The boy's eyes widened. He winced and crinkled his nose in disgust. That was apparently too much information for him to stomach.

“That must have hurt a lot. And it's gross, eww...” he concluded firmly, shaking his head with vehemence as if trying to efface that image from his memory forever. “Can we go to the park now? I wanna feed the duckies.” 

The complete change of subject pleased John very much. It meant that Hamish got to know everything he wanted and decided that it was pointless to dwell on the subject anymore, since his thirst for knowledge had been satisfied. 

“Sure. Grab your coat.”

The boy squealed happily, pecked both his parents on the cheek and dashed downstairs like the world's smallest hurricane to get dressed.

John chuckled. They had at least a few minutes until the boy won the fight with his shoelaces and put his hat on, so John took that opportunity to slide closer to his husband and let his head rest languidly on his shoulder.

“It went much better than I expected,” Sherlock admitted, embracing John. He felt content and at peace. To be honest, he was bracing himself for tears, shouts, and lots of pain, thinking that the truth would shatter the boy's outlook on life. Generally, more drama than anyone could or would want to handle. It was one of those rare occasions when he was glad to be wrong. 

“I told you, Sherlock, that he'd understand. He's a smart boy. After all, he has your genes and your intellect.”

Sherlock ran his long fingers gently through John's hair. “Perhaps. But he has your heart, and that's even more important.”

John looked up at him with a radiant smile. There was so much love in Sherlock's gaze that the doctor instantly melted in his arms. Their lips joined in a slow, tender kiss, celebrating their little victory. It took more than five of Hamish's impatient whines to finally make them break the kiss and walk hand in hand downstairs to join their jubilant son.

All was good in the Watson-Holmes family.


End file.
